


Off Beat Rhythm

by banksial



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Androids, Angst, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-07-08 09:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19867057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banksial/pseuds/banksial
Summary: Thomas is not lonely and he definitely does not need an android."Get a goddamn android if you're so goddamn lonely, Jefferson.""Get a goddamn life outside of your goddamn wife, Hamilton."





	1. Chapter 1

Thomas wakes up and for a moment he's not sure where he is. Is he in his fiancé's bed with Martha pressed so closely to him it's difficult to tell where he starts and where she ends, or is he at his friend's apartment with the soft couch that's way too doughy? Is he laying on the floor in front of the television in the open-floor plan of his living room with the light flickering strange shadows on his face? He may even be settled uncomfortably on a plane seat, he's doing so much travelling for his work. 

  
No. He's in his bed, the new one he's bought to get rid of Martha's smell even though he still uses the pillow cases they had shared. They had been a gift, embellished with their respective initials, hers with a small embroidery of rosemary and his with an airplane. A subtle message for him to spend more time with his wife.

There are some things that you can't throw away. They are as stuck to you as you are to them. For a moment, he is too dazed with sleep to realise that it's after the funeral and he decides he feels too tired to get up and go to work. The prospect of facing Hamilton at the office is too sickening. He would rather stay here in the warmth of his bed. Besides, everybody still feels sorry enough for him to get away with things. He hates being pitied; but at least he can take paid leave off of work.

The soft artificial voice of his personal assistant installed brings him back to the present enough for him to realise when he is.

"Thomas, you have slept in twenty minutes past your alarm." Thomas props himself up on his pillow and casts an arm across his face. He's not that tired, not really, but he had woken up expecting to be allowed to stay home so his day is already ruined. 

"Why didn't you tell me before?" He doesn't mean to sound so irritated. He already knows the answer so he's not sure why he even asked.

"I woke you at five-forty and then ten to six, Thomas." 

"Sorry."

"It's okay, Thomas. Breakfast has been made five minutes ago, but it's been kept warm."

"Thanks." Thomas swings his legs around off the edge of the bed and rubs at his face as if it were possible to rearrange his features, like he was made out of soft clay. "How long's it been since I washed my hair?" Al answers not long at all, which is a shame. He feels like he deserves some pampering today.  
As soon as Thomas's feet touch the soft rug next to the bed, the lights brighten to a warm blonde, slowly so that it doesn't blind him. "Uh. Play my Barney Stinson soundtrack."

"Yessir."

Thomas hums as a light-hearted rock song begins playing. He gets up and walks over to his closet, bouncing on the balls of his feet to the rhythm and humming along as the voice begins to sing about a sailor being drawn to the sea. It's from Guardians of the Galaxy, because, uh. Quill rules, and Thomas definitely rules as well. Despite being late Thomas takes his time in scrubbing his hair under the spray of his shower and reading the news on the screen in his kitchen while he eats a breakfast made up of sugary cereal. He continues to be overly patient until Al reminds him that his boss has been temperamental about the time he's been getting to work lately.

"I'm so tired of that guy," Jefferson grumbles to Al. Because everybody talks to their AI. It's not just him, okay. He has plenty of friends. And he doesn't need to explain himself. "He just doesn't get off my back. He's got one hundred thousand other workers he can bully."

"You're the only one with a track record of eighteen unexplained absences this past year," Al says.

Thomas makes a noise of deep disapproval because he knows that he's right.

That it's right. _It._

Thomas bumps into an Erin when he turns the corner of the corridor. He doesn't bother apologising even though the Erin offers a smile and a "Sorry." It isn't as if its hurt. It can't even feel pain. He's stuck with the conflicting guilt of this sentiment the next minute when he's forced to take the elevator with two Aarons.  
"Nice weather we're having," Thomas muses. He likes to fuck with them. Push their limits. Helps him forget the sour taste in his mouth, because he knows it's wrong to hate them.  
"It is," The first Aaron answers, hands behind its back. The second one is holding an envelope in one hand. "It is forecast to be sunny today, with a top of twenty-two degrees Celsius--"

"I didn't ask."

"My apologies."

The elevator stops at ground fall and Thomas steps off, pushing in front of the second Aaron and sauntering out of the building.

  
Thomas takes the train to work. He is very much well off enough to have a car but hardly anybody drives a car nowadays. It's all about reviving the environment now that it's gotten vital lately. It's the new trend. Thomas steps up to the yellow line. An Erin walks up next to him and says, "Good morning." Thomas ignores her. On the train, he also ignores the flashing ads for 'droids, for different kinds of automated kitchen appliances, advertising positive behaviour. He puts in his earbuds and leans back.

He shouldn't be checking out the girls on the train because he's not a creep of any sort. There's just this one woman who looks a bit like Martha that takes the same carriage every day. She has her hair, and a mole in the same place on her jaw. He can't keep his eyes off of her. She's so focused on her book that she doesn't notice.  
So he might be a bit of a freak. Fine. Whatever. Bite him. 

  
Work is _terrible_. It always is. A stupid job in a stupid office, with a stupid guy working right next door. Hamilton keeps going on and on about his wife.

"Hey, are you even listening?" Alexander has his legs propped up on his desk. He always has a special clearing in his clutter to do so.

"Would it shut you up if I said no?" Jefferson says this through grit teeth. He hates listening to shit about relationships, especially Hamilton's bragging. Alexander assesses him with curious eyes, his brows raised.

"Okay, okay." And he hates his pity. He hates that Hamilton is making exceptions for him and he knows it's an exception because Hamilton has always been an open book. This is especially made true by his next statement: "Hooked up with anybody lately?"

"Goddamnit, Hamilton." Hamilton had been trying to be subtle but it hadn't worked. He's never subtle. For example, he's angry as shit now. His eyebrows are very expressive. He needs to get them done at a brow place or something.

"Get a goddamn android if you're so goddamn lonely, Jefferson."

"Get a goddamn life outside of your goddamn wife."

"You watch what you say about my wife!"

Before things escalate further, Laurens interrupts them with some bullshit and Thomas concentrates on his computer screen and puts all thoughts of wives out of his head.

After work, Thomas takes the train back home. He watches the pretty girl get on at the second station, watches her read her book. He's not lonely. He's the hottest guy in this town. He's two fucks away from being Barney Stinson, for Christ's sake. He could bang any girl in this city.

He doesn't want a girl, though. He's had the best girl already. There's no point to trying to find another one. He sees another ad for an android in the station, flashing just a little. The station is nearly empty once the crowds from the train he was on leave. Nobody is around to see him look.  
An Erin. Or an Aaron. Thomas watches the two alternate, flickering in and out.

The package is too big. The men that carried it up to his apartment are clearly pissed, they probably don't want to carry it inside. Thomas pays them extra without speaking and they carry it into his penthouse. It's huge, way too big. Don’t they come in like, bubble wrap? Do they have to come in a big fucking box?  
He's not scared. God, he is not scared. He is not scared.  
Thomas opens the box once he is sure he's alone, and then tears away the wrapping. It had been required to lay on its back which makes it considerably easier. And freakier. It's like its in a coffin. Thomas moves the tissue paper away from its face.

Its face is flawless. It is beautiful. Thomas touches its cheek where its synthetic skin yields only a little bit, like real skin. And then he draws his arm back as if it had burnt him. 

"You're not real," He says, accusatory. "You ain't real. You're not her and you could never be her, you ain't shit."

Of course, the android doesn't reply. It's not even on. Thomas collects the spittle in his mouth and prepares to spit onto the box, or onto its face because of some imaginary thing it hadn't done that's made him so angry. He's so angry. He doesn't even know why. He swallows instead. He sags, his head in his hands, and takes one ragged breath. It's not even an Erin. It's not even a girl. Why is he so angry?

"Sir?" Al chimes. Thomas does not raise his head. "To turn him on, you just need to say, 'Wake up, Aaron."

The robot's eyes blink open. They are startlingly blue. Not a normal blue, not like Martha's-- it's almost as if the irises come off of the actual eye, a hologram, adjusting. They turn milky white and then brown. It's booting up, he realises. The Aaron sits up, blinks a few times, looks around and focuses on Thomas, who is staring at it, awed.

"Hello," Says the robot. "I am Aaron, your personal--"

"Cut the shit. I know what you are." Aaron is unphased, though. It smiles, the goddamn scoundrel.

"This is only procedure. I am Aaron, your personal assistant. How may I help?"

"Get me some whiskey. God, you're already driving me insane."

"I need to process the environment, and you need to calibrate me."

Thomas fumbles for the instructions. He takes the screen and scrolls through to the second page and then reaches out, only hesitating a little bit before pressing his forefinger and his middle finger against the space just below the 'droid's ear. Its eyes go blue again, holographic, and Thomas looks down at his instructions.  
"Okay," He says. "Okay." He searches up the floorplan of his penthouse on his phone and installs that into Aaron through the Cloud, watching its eyes flicker. "Okay," He adds. There are so many things to factor in. Voice alterations, even though its voice is fine. A Caucasian option. Accents. "'The Aaron can speak 5,800 languages'," Thomas reads out. "'And can answer any question.' Yeah, right. Al, should I turn this shit on?"

"If you do, I'll have somebody to talk to when you are at work."

"Creepy. Okay." Jefferson taps the same spot, and the 'droid wakes up.

"Hello. I am Aaron, your personal--"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm Thomas Jefferson. Can you get me some whiskey? I mean. Get me some whiskey."

The Aaron pauses and then stands in the box. He steps over it and heads to the kitchen. Thomas watches him and then sighs, rubbing his face. "Maybe this was a mistake," He mutters. "I don't need a fucking android."

"Your latest scans have shown that your serotonin has decreased gradually throughout the last few months. You might find it beneficial to have an android around."

"Yeah," Thomas says. "Yeah."

Yeah.

Aaron comes back with the glass of whiskey. It holds it up to Thomas. He takes it and stares into the glass as if searching for an answer at the bottom. He doesn't want this. He's in the mood for wine, not whiskey. Briefly, Thomas makes eye contact with the 'droid before tipping the glass so that the whiskey dumps onto the hardwood floor.

"Oops," Thomas says. The Aaron watches the last few drops trickle from the glass. "Clean that up. Look in the sink cabinet."

"Yes, Thomas."

As he leaves Thomas stands up and resigns himself to the couch, and puts the glass onto the coffee table. He can hear the Aaron talking to Al faintly. Where are the paper towels, please. We don't have any, but the tea towels are in the second draw. Thank you, Al. You are welcome, Aaron. God. They go on. Thomas turns on his television and blinks out so effectively that he doesn't notice Aaron kneeling next to the mess and cleaning up the whiskey.

Thomas remains on the couch for the rest of the evening. At six, Aaron walks up to couch while keeping a safe distance. "Would you like me to prepare dinner, Thomas?"

"What? No. No, it's fine. Go away."

"It's recommended that--"

"Yeah, and I recommend my dick in your mouth so you stop bothering me. Shut up, and leave me alone."

Aaron does. Thomas sighs. He toes off his shoes and pulls his leg up to his chest. He doesn't know how long he sits there but by the time he gets up, it's midnight and his eyes sting from exposure.He turns off the television and walks to the kitchen, yawning. Al asks him quietly if he wants the lights on. Thomas answers with a soft 'no, it's fine, thanks.'He gets a glass of water and turns the corner into the hallway. He bumps into something solid, and screams when he's met with a face.

"It's just me, Thomas."

"Fucking hell. Fuck! What the fuck!" Thomas staggers back, covering his face. "Christ!" Aaron tilts its head. Its strangely unsmiling. It's unsettling.

"I didn't mean to frighten you."

"I don't care. What the fuck were you doing?"

"I meant to leave you alone. That's what you instructed."

"What? I didn't--" Wait, yes he did. Thomas covers his eyes and attempts to compose himself. "Power down, or whatever it is you 'droids do."

"Yes, Thomas. Goodnight."

In the bedroom Thomas pulls out one of Martha's old skirts. He's feeling especially lonely. He deserves it. He falls asleep to dreams of her.


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas wakes up, and for a moment, he doesn't know where he is. He snuffles deeper into the skirt that doesn't smell like Martha anymore, but he's kept regardless. He's had too many moments where he's become something angry and resentful, an explosion, throwing out all her things. The matching set of china doves that her mother had given her for their anniversary that she often wanted to throw away but couldn't get around to doing so, the veil she wore on their wedding day. Her perfume. Oh, her perfume. He wishes he hadn't thrown that out. He's too above himself to buy another whole bottle. It would feel like surrender.

"Good morning, Thomas." Al's voice is soothingly quiet, computer generated. Thomas rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling where it's lit up a faint blue by the LED's built into the skirting. It fades and brightens subtly with Al's words. "Aaron has prepared breakfast for you in the kitchen. I have already integrated your food preferences."  
  
Thomas doesn't reply. He tries to figure out whether or not he's glad that he has an android around. Is it worth it? It wasn't cheap, but. But. "What's the time?"

"Twenty to six, Thomas. You woke up early. Do you want to go back to sleep? You had a big day yesterday."

Thomas turns and smiles into his pillow at Al's motherly instincts. "No, I'll get up now."

"Okay, Thomas." The shower begins running in the en-suite. Thomas sits up and goes to shower without preparing his clothes beforehand. He can do that afterwards. He's early. At the moment, he feels a little dirty after sleeping with something of Martha's. He hasn't done that for a few weeks and it makes him feel ashamed, even though there isn't anybody that knows. He turns the shower cold and gets in. The question only occurs to him when he's about to switch the water off. "Al, what's the 'droid up to?"

"Aaron is picking your clothes for the day. At the moment, he's decided on a charcoal suit with the burgundy tie--"

Thomas has already stepped out of the shower, reaching for the door handle because he has no reason to be embarrassed about his body in front of Al. He hesitates the last second, whips a towel from the banister and wraps that around his waist before pushing into his room. "What are you doing?" He accuses, his gaze sharp and his voice louder than what was truly appropriate. The Aaron turns away from his dresser and doesn't even seem startled by his volume. In fact, it is so unfazed that it smiles. Thomas grinds his teeth together as the 'droid speaks.

"Al told me that you usually like to pick your outfit ahead of time, and so I did it before you. I didn't want you to be late. Would you like to wear this tie?"  
  
Thomas stares, dumbfounded, at the striped tie that Aaron holds up. It's one of his favorites, saved for specific occasions where he has to look better than everybody else but simultaneously needs to look casual about it, like he wasn't putting in too much effort. " _No_. I don't wear that on work days."  
  
Aaron pauses. There's a short whirring noise, it must be thinking, and then it nods. "I understand. If that's the case, then what about this one?"  
  
"No. No, not that one either."  
  
"This one?"  
  
"God. What are you even asking for?"  
  
"It's my objective to find out as much about you as I can, so that I can properly meet your preferences," Aaron explains patiently. Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose. There's more whirring.

"God, what can you learn from _that_?"  
  
"That speaking about my programming upsets you. It's happened two times now. Should I stop taking it into account?"  
  
"Yes. Give me that." Thomas snatches the tie from Aaron and rolls it up tenderly before putting it away. "I wear this tie on Fridays, see." He unravels a sangria tie made out of expensive material. There's a pause from Aaron, and then: "You like the colour purple?"  
  
Thomas nods wearily. Aaron smiles. Buzzing fills the stillness between them. "I'll remember that."  
  
"Okay." Thomas hangs the tie on the shelf it came from, suddenly sheepishly aware of his nakedness. He changes his grip on the towel he wears around his waist, clears his throat. He hasn't any reason to be embarrassed because 1) he _knows_ he has a good body, he works out, he puts too much time into his skin to be ashamed and he doesn't even need to talk of his hair and 2) The Aaron is a robot, and has absolutely no initiative to admire Thomas nor be ashamed for standing in front of him like this.

But. But, underneath the Aaron's shrewd gaze, he feels a little odd. Being seen in such a compromising state especially in front of an attractive person is not the norm for any Jefferson.

"What the fuck," Thomas says, stunned by his own stupidity. "What the fuck." With that, he turns and returns to the bathroom because he hadn't even brushed his hair yet.

Hamilton goes on and on about how it's his wedding anniversary at work. Thomas glowers at his computer like it's its fault.  
"She bought me new cuff-links and she _knows_ I've been meaning to get for _ages_ now. They're the ones with the concave opals too. It's weird, I didn't tell her that, and the only person that knows is _you_ , dipshit."  
  
"Oh, give me a break. I don't listen to half-- not even that. I don't _listen_ , Hamilton."

Alexander blinks, dumbfounded. "Then who else could it be?"

"You speak loud enough for the whole office to hear. Hell, Eliza probably heard you all the way back at your complex."  
  
Alexander hums. He tilts his head back. "Perhaps it was John. Or maybe Hercules, because I heard that--"  
  
When the clock strikes six in the evening Thomas clocks out and flees, eager to escape Alexander's blabbering after two hours' worth of listening to him pondering who was it that gave Eliza the hint even though it doesn't matter, and speaking of cuff-links, did you hear that our company is throwing a get together for the firm since we performed best, and are you going, and I'm bringing my Betsey and so who are you bringing, wait, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, are you alright?

There are no more doors to slam: they're all automated. Instead Thomas storms into his apartment with as much noise as possible.

"Thomas?" Al sounds concerned. Thomas puts his hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut. Al must get the message because it quietens.

"Aaron," He yells, and makes a big show of waiting impatiently for the robot to get here. It appears in the kitchen and looks at Thomas with something like caution before advancing slowly around the divider.

"How may I be of service?"  
  
"Lose the formality and get me a bottle of-- I don't know. Whatever has the highest alcohol content."  
  
"Yes, Thomas."  
  
Thomas rakes his hands through his hair. "Don’t call me that."  
  
"Okay. Is 'sir' alright?"  
  
"Yes. No. No, just," Thomas's eyes fill with tears. He's so insanely _alone_. The only company he has are robots and they don't _feel_ anything. He needs somebody to be angry at him, or to comfort him, or to laugh at him because he's tried to wash a spoon and the water has splashed right back in his face. "Just. What are you looking at?"

Aaron doesn't even flinch at the sudden change in octave. It barely even falters. "Thomas, may I suggest that you take a few slow breaths?"  
  
"I don't need your advice. I don't need you, I don't need anybody. I'm perfectly fine on my own," Thomas laments, and then the dam breaks and he truly is crying now. He takes his briefcase and shoves it at Aaron's chest because that's its _job_ , and then retreats into his bedroom, ashamed of his encounter and unsatisfied   
  
Thomas falls forward onto his bed after undressing to his underclothes. There's a moment of nothing at all before Thomas moves so suddenly he surprises himself and drives his fist into his pillow. "It's not _fair_ ," He forces through gritted teeth. "Goddamn Hamilton and fuck his stupid wife, it isn't _fair_."  
  
He continues on like this until he's tired himself out. When he wakes up next it's that disastrous spot in between a late night and morning where nothing good can happen. Thomas sits up. He feels groggy and his head hurts as if he had ended up drinking all of that alcohol. He's dehydrated. His mouth feels impossibly dry.

"Al," He whispers. The AI either doesn't hear him or is being petty. "Al?"  
  
Thomas leans back on his elbow and scratches his hair as he tries to summon the motivation to get up and fetch some water. He startles when he hears footsteps down the hall. If somebody broke in Al would have told him, even if it was peeved.

"Who's there?" Thomas demands, gripping the blanket. He feels blindly with his other hand for his phone.  
  
"It's me, Mr. Jefferson." Aaron's voice is smooth and reassuring. Thomas feels himself sag, relaxing. "Did you need anything?"  
  
"No," He says, instinctively. And then, "Well, yes. I'm thirsty." The request makes him flush. He feels like a child. He did throw a tantrum a few hours before, after all. The Aaron only nods and disappears. Thomas waits, antsy. When Aaron returns he's holding a glass of water. From the sight of it the glass is fogged up. It must be hot.  
  
"You are the only person I've met who likes their water warm," Aaron says. Thomas tips his head up jerkily to stare at him. He can only utter a dumb, "What?"  
  
Aaron tilts his head and seems to register his surprise. "You advised me that I should not be as formal around you. Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"No-- No. Not at all." Thomas takes the glass of water and stares at Aaron suspiciously, gaze sharpening. He takes a slow sip. "Okay. Bye."  
  
"Sleep well."

"Yes. Okay. Goodnight."   



End file.
